


The Graveyard

by Canisa



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ghosts, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mystery, Romance, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 20:45:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6166345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canisa/pseuds/Canisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A child adopted by the souls in a graveyard.<br/>A creature that walked among the living but not quite living.</p><p>In this alternate universe, John Watson learned that the land of the living is where the real danger lurks, and the land of dead is not devoid of emotions and love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Graveyard

Chapter 1: The Child

The graveyard was as lively as ever.

Mrs. Hudson perched on her tombstone watching over her companions for the past couple centuries.   All in told, there were about 10,000 souls resting at the site.  Most of them deep in sleep, never bothered to surface.  But the few that came out to congregate night after night, more than made up those silent souls. 

And tonight, with the moon hung brightly in the cloudless night, was nothing ordinary.

Usually, the souls would just trade gossips and the triumph of haunting, but tonight… tonight was filled with the talk of a human invader.   A child, no more than 5 years old, who now was currently resting comfortably by her tombstone.  Blonde curly hair framed his plump baby face.  His eyes were shut and blissfully dreaming, unaware of a group of 20 odd souls gather around him in a ring a formation.

“He is a living boy!”   Carl, the poor soul who died at the age of 11, dashed over and squatted next to the sleeping child.  He playfully waved his semi-transparent hand through the boy.  His fingers never connected with the warmed body before him.

The group erupted into a low murmur.

“Mrs. Hudson!  Surely you could see how ridiculous this is!”   A piercing shout broke out as expected from the soul in the form of a young man.  “He’s living.  And we are not.  Can you imagine….” 

“No.  I can’t.”  The old soul interrupted Philip Anderson with clipped words. She sighed by old habit, and not a single breath of air came out of her pursed lips.  The early spring air had been chilly and the young child was cladded only with a thin blue checker patterned pajama.  Sensing a shiver from the young one, she moved her hands in fluid circular motions and the leaves suddenly gathered and pushed and layered against the child.   A content smile lingered at the child’s lip and Mrs. Hudson felt warmth even when she had no physical body.

“Um.. What Mrs. Hudson is trying to say, sir, begging your pardon, is that she doesn’t see it that way.  She sees it as doing her duty.”

Mrs. Hudson never took her eyes off the child, but she knew exactly who had spoken for her.  

Of course the affable Mike Stamford.  She had known him since he was a child who remained a bit on the heavy side even after he had matured into a studious man.   His round spectacles became his constant fixture on the bridge of his nose.  When he had decided to become a doctor, no one was surprised.   The caring nature practically oozed out of the man’s body like a fountain.  But the good Dr. Stamford did not enjoy a long life.   He was so dedicated to his work, that when tuberculosis swiped through the village, instead of running away from the dying town, he had stayed and caught predictably caught tuberculosis from his patient.  He passed away only 3 months after her.

“Her duty?”   

Pressing her fingers into her temple, Mrs. Hudson could not stand the high pitch shriek from Anderson.   Unlike Dr. Stamford, She had not known him in flesh and blood, for he and his lover had come to the graveyard much later.  In the beginning, he had been an easy going person.  Mrs. Hudson could often see the cute pair strolling through the graveyard.  No one really knew how they died.  It was quite rude to ask without offering.  And then on the 45th day of their burial, the lover suddenly vanished before his eyes.   One minute, they were strolling through the graveyard like usual, and the next minute, she started to fade and then disappeared into nothingness without warning.   After that, Anderson was never the same.  The easy going young ghost became bitter and untrusting.  A constant frown had hung on his face.  For 5 years, Anderson had plastered Mrs. Hudson and Dr. Stamford, the two longest active residents in this graveyard, why his lover had disappeared.  And Mike could only look at him with sad sympathetic eyes.

No one really knew why.  Some souls just disappeared.  Some souls, like the 20 odd ones here, still lingering in the world without a physical body.   Mrs. Hudson herself never knew why she remained as a ghost.  She had no unfinished promises.   She knew no one (after all, she has been dead for more than 300 years).  She simply existed… caught in the world between living and non-living.  And being the longest active resident at the graveyard, she had become the keeper of this land.

“Your duty lies with this graveyard.  The baby simply cannot stay here.  We have to return it!”

A wave of murmuring erupted in the group and the old soul could see the residents were being swayed by Anderson’s outburst.

“My duty, as the longest resident here, is to look after every soul in this graveyard.”  As much as Mrs. Hudson sympathized with Anderson’s situation, her patience was wearing thin.   “I believe this child also has a soul, don’t you agree?”  The child had stirred and the old guardian soul was in a dark mood.  They shouldn’t be discussing this.  They should be gathering things for the child and make him comfortable.

“His home is no more.” 

A deep voice suddenly blanketed the night, quieted the murmur and the unrest.

“Sherlock.”  Mrs. Hudson turned to their honorary resident.   “What do you mean his home is no more?”  Sherlock Holmes was unlike the resident souls in every way.  He still possessed a physical body.  But he was certainly, undoubtedly, not part of the living.  His face was pale.  His body was long and lean.  He was a creature that walked among the living but not quite living.

“I can smell blood.”  Sherlock sniffed, his grey eyes glint under the full moon.  “Someone is trying to break into the graveyard.”

Mrs. Hudson looked toward the gate and saw a shadow standing behind the brick pillar.  The silhouette was dark, even under the full moon.

“I can smell blood on him.”  There was an edge in his voice. 

Before the old guardian could react, a desperate shriek suddenly called out.

“PROTECT MY CHILD!!”

The souls looked up and caught a soul of a young woman hung in midair.   Whatever was below her waist was no longer visible.  What remained was the upper half of her torso and her pleading eyes framed by the same shade of blonde hair tumbling down to her shoulder.   She had shown nothing but fear and panic for her child.  “PLEASE!”  The young soul called out again.  “PROTECT MY CHILD.”  Her low pitched screaming had started to attract more attention from the souls of graveyard.  She could see even the usually sleeping ones were now emerging from their rest place.

If Mrs. Hudson had a beating heart, she would have felt someone had squeezed it. 

“Who is she?  Is she buried here?”  Anderson eyed at her suspiciously.

“Anderson.”  Sherlock sighed.  “Don’t talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the whole graveyard.  Obviously she is a freshly dead by the look of her.”

Mrs. Hudson ignored the bickering boys behind her.  “Rest in peace, young soul.”  She looked up the fresh ghost and gave her the most reassuring smile she could muster.  “I will look after your child.”  

“He is coming in.”  Sherlock’s low voice vibrated as he rose from his sitting position in a fluid motion.

Before Mrs. Hudson could ask more, Sherlock was no longer in front of her.    But rather, a faint sound of fluttering wings could be heard.  Trusting Sherlock would take care of the intruder, Mrs. Hudson reassured again.  “We will look at him.”  She kept her voice as soothing as possible.

The young mother looked toward the gate, watching Sherlock materialized back into human form.  From a distance, the souls watched coldly as Sherlock threw the intruder against the gate.  His long body hovered over his downed victim.  The young soul averted her eyes.   Mrs. Hudson could see a flash of sadness marred the young mother’s beautiful face.   But the sadness was gone quickly and replaced by gratitude.  “Thank you.”   The young mother said quietly.   No tears could be shed from a soul, but Mrs. Hudson could sense the relief in her voice.  “Thank you.”

“What is the child’s name?”  The old guardian asked gently.

The young soul smiled, as the rest of her torso was now fading quickly.  “Name him.”   She granted.  “Name him and make sure he will live a happy life.  So that no harm will come to him.”

“I will.” 

The young soul dipped her head and then no trace of her in the world was to be seen.

Jaws set, Mrs Hudson turned toward the rest of the crowd. “The child shall be a resident at this graveyard.”  She declared.  Her steady eyes dared.   “I shall give him the Freedom of the Graveyard.”

The group around her was solemn.  It was only the second time she had granted the Freedom of the Graveyard to an outsider.

And the air suddenly thickened upon her announcement.  The density of the air shifted toward the sleeping living child, enveloping him under the blessing of the soft rays from the moon.

 The souls stayed quiet until the dense air slowly lifted, returning to normal. 

“And what would we feed him and cloth him?”  Anderson asked meekly, breaking the streak of silence.  The earlier sharpness was all but gone in his voice.

Mrs. Hudson could sense the resignation from him.   She had always known he was a softie at heart, despite the constant complaints.  Not even him could abandon a child when the fading mother had pleaded with them with such desperation.

“I will be able to secure him clothes and food.”  Sherlock suddenly sided with them.   His once pale face had a faint hue of red.

“And where would he stay?”  Anderson’s voice shrank smaller.

“The chapel shall be a good shelter for the boy.”  Dr. Stamford pointed out. 

Mrs. Hudson always knew Mike Stamford had a good head on his shoulder.   Years back, the town council had decided that it would be too costly to renovate the old chapel but hesitate to take it down due to its historical value.   So instead of making a decision, a padlock was placed on the chapel and the town watched the overgrown ivy slowly climbing and covering up the solidly built stone structure.

“Then it is set.”   Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands.  A smile lingered on her face.

_Oh, there are so much to do.   Sherlock will have to gather lots of supplies._

Mrs.  Hudson mentally started to catalog the items.  She had never felt so.. alive in the past couple centuries.

“What would we call him?”  Ever the doctor, Mike was squatting next to the child, looking over him for any visible wounds.

Mrs. Hudson considered.   “His mother did not want to use their name.”

“Someone must be still after him.”

“My cousin was named John.”    The boy soul piped up hopefully.  The prospect of having a playmate must have ignited something in him.  Carl had been the only soul in child form lingering at the graveyard.   His family all but disappeared.   Even if Carl had been around for more than 50 years, his mind remained a child as he was when he died.

Mrs. Hudson nodded, agreeing to Carl.  “John is good.”

“Shall we call him John Hudson?”  Mike Stamford stood up, having determined that the child needed no medical attention. 

“Idiot.  There is a large tombstone here with her name on it.  And there were still her descendants here in the village.”  Anderson spat.  “That would be too suspicious.”

“Watson then.”   Sherlock said with boredom in his voice.   The burst of energy from before had already dissipated.  He picked off a thread of invisible lint from his long black coat.  “There is no ‘Watson’ in this town.”  He added carelessly.

“John Watson.”  Mrs. Hudson tested the name on her tongue.  Kneeling down next to the child, she concentrated.  The air shifted around her.  Tentatively, she slowly reached toward the child.  Her fingers, once semi-transparent started to fill in with solid color.   The tip of her finger touched the curly blonde hair.  She gently gathered the child into her arm.

“John Watson.” 

She smiled fondly at her child.

**Author's Note:**

> I had taken the world created by Neil Gaiman in his wonderful book, The Graveyard Book. I plan to loosely used the background and apply Sherlock and John in it. Lets stir it and see where this could take me :) Ideas are welcomed! I sort of set the stage, but the plot is still forming... Here is a chance to help me shape this! :)  
> Thank you for reading!


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